


it's a bit warmer than I would have guessed

by marriedtheghost



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 15:25:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5132594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marriedtheghost/pseuds/marriedtheghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>when I realized I loved you<br/>it was not romantic<br/>not flush with pink roses & wine<br/>but rather normal<br/>it was a quiet realization<br/>like checking the weather I was currently standing in<br/>"huh, it's a bit warmer<br/>than I would have guessed"</p>
<p>Sheffield to London in less than two hours is no small feat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's a bit warmer than I would have guessed

**Author's Note:**

> thank you [lane](http://quitefinished.tumblr.com) & [y](http://ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com) for reading this in the draft stages and saying some nice things so that i actually finished it. disclaimer: i mean you can't prove it didn't happen, so...

**last night**

 

It’s not breaking and entering if he has a key. Still. 

“Are you trying to burgle me?”

Nick is a mess. There’s a bit of dried fake blood on his cheek and his eyes are bleary, blinking up at Harry in disoriented surprise. When Harry reaches under the covers, he realizes Nick is still wearing trousers and his shirt is bunched up to his armpits without any help at all from him. He smells sweet like flavored vodka and a little stale from sweat. He talks and it’s a thick mumble, like his brain isn’t catching up and his tongue is sticking to his mouth. 

Harry has this image of him stumbling home from whatever party he was at, tossing his shoes and coat off at the front door and passing out the moment he hit the bed. It’s a clear picture — he’s seen it before.

“No,” says Harry, pressing his hand to the curve of Nick’s ribcage. He’s fighting the urge to laugh at something entirely independent of Nick’s reaction to him being there. 

His hands aren’t shaking anymore.

Harry is a mess. Sheffield to London in less than two hours is no small feat, even coming straight off the stage with only a perfunctory shower between there and the car. He feels wide awake and grows frustrated when it takes Nick more than a moment or two to register what is happening. He shouldn’t be here; there were rules, or at least he thought there might be, he isn’t sure anymore. A lot of things that were there before suddenly aren’t anymore, after all. 

Thoughts begin to form and then leave him in the middle, or right before the end, abandoning coherence altogether. Harry thought he would be handling this better — well, he starts to think that, then abruptly stops and kisses Nick instead.

It’s chaste, for all intents and purposes. Nick barely even kisses him back, reacting with something more like muscle memory than anything before Harry pulls away and breathes, forehead pressed against Nick’s shoulder.

Nick says something that Harry misses under the sound of his blood rushing in his ears and his own heartbeat. It feels not unlike being back on that stage, like this is big, like he’s on the precipice of something. That breath of a moment between looking down and leaping.

Nick’s voice cuts through the static. " _Harry._ ”

He feels Nick’s hand in his hair and lifts his head from his shoulder.

_Looks down._

The light from the bedside lamp is making shadows on Nick’s face, making his eyelashes look even longer, like they go for miles, and finally his eyes are alert. _About time,_ Harry thinks. His first finished thought of the night. He breathes.

_Leaps._

Nick surges up at the same time Harry leans down, and this time it’s not muscle memory, this time Nick kisses him back the same way that Harry kisses him: with teeth and tongues and hands in hair, hands grabbing at each other’s clothes, hands struggling with belt buckles and unbuttoning jeans. 

It’s a struggle with Harry on top of the covers and Nick mostly under, but the duvet ends up in a pile on the floor and then it’s just them, still kissing, still pushing at each other and pulling at clothes. Harry’s the first one to get his hand in Nick’s trousers, tearing at the zipper and shoving his hand inside to grab his cock. He’s not hard, but he’s just woken up so Harry forgives easily, takes it as an opportunity to map out how he feels, catalogue the noise he makes into Harry’s mouth when he stiffens up. 

“You,” Nick starts. His hands are in Harry’s hair, given up at getting him out of his clothes for the moment. Harry’s not sure when he ended up hovering over him. He opens his eyes and Nick is so close that Harry can’t see, but he knows his eyes are closed, can feel him take a deep, deep breath, like it’s his turn to leap.

He doesn’t finish whatever he was going to say. He sits up so quick that Harry goes with him involuntarily, his hand still a firm fist around his prick, unwilling to let him go. Nick pulls off his shirt and Harry follows the movement with his free hand, runs his palm up over his belly and chest then wraps around his back, pulling him closer while he leans up and gets his mouth on his neck. He’s so warm from sleep all over, and Harry feels it seep into his skin, spreading from his fingertips to his shoulders and along his chest. 

They stay like that, Harry with his lips attached to Nick’s throat and his hands ineffective in his jeans and pressing against the small of his back, before it seems like Nick gets tired of the position and drags Harry’s hands away and pins them down on the bed. Harry huffs a surprised breath, liking the feeling of Nick’s hands pressing against his wrists, but he lets go too soon, gets his hands on the snap of Harry’s trousers instead, which turns out to be a much better idea. Harry lifts his hips so Nick can shimmy his jeans and pants down, gets them off and sits up to strip his shirt over his head as Nick rolls onto his back and sheds the rest of his clothes.

Every atom in Harry’s body is moving purely on instinct. He climbs into Nick’s lap and kisses him again, touches wherever he can, desperate to leave his fingerprints on every inch of skin he can reach. His fingers, he discovers, fit nicely in the divots of Nick’s ribs, and his chest hair is soft under the palms of his hands but his chin is scratchy with light stubble. He’s long all over; long arms tangled around Harry’s back, long legs pinned under Harry’s thighs, long cock pressing against Harry’s hip. He kisses like he’s got something to prove, and Harry thinks maybe they both do, but that thought abandons him too as soon as Nick wraps his long fingers around Harry and flips them over again. 

His foot lands flat on the bed and shoots a sharp pain up his calf, searing from the barely-healed break. He hisses in pain, lets out a quiet _ah, ah_ as Nick wraps his fingers around his ankle, careful, and swallows the noise right out of his mouth. 

They find a rhythm together, after that. Every press of fingertips and shuddering breath, every movement against one another is just a comma, a pause before the next bite to a collarbone or tug of hair. Harry lifts his leg to hook around Nick’s lower back; Nick squeezes his thigh and holds him steady. Nick sinks his teeth into the skin below Harry’s ear; Harry grips a fistful of Nick’s hair and tugs. Harry begins a thought; Nick finishes it.

Harry scrabbles at the bed, lifts his hips, and Nick gets a fist around both of their cocks, holds them together and jerks them slow like that, pressed tight against each other. It’s so much more than Harry is used to, more intimate somehow, he has to turn his face and breathe, gasping into the pillow. The open space of his exposed neck and shoulder become a place for Nick to press his face, and Harry can feel it then, the tremors shaking out from his bones. Harry’s hands are steady, and he grabs at Nick, fingers curled around his shoulder blades, running down his back, picking up the sweat along his spine. Nick moves his hand faster, breath puffing hot against Harry’s collar as he grasps at the bed again, sheets bunching in his fists, hips rolling up to match Nick’s rhythm.

Harry comes first, all arched-back and body bowstring taut before its release, that breath of a moment where his eyes and hands seek Nick out in the darkness. He clutches at him, finds his face and gasps, pauses, then moans brokenly as he spills across his belly. His body feels like one giant tremor as Nick strokes him through it. They lean in together, kissing again because they can’t get enough.

Nick isn’t long after, Harry makes sure of it. He jerks him fast and relentless, feels it the moment he gets close in the way his lips part and his breath comes out trembling, right before he stills and comes, streaking up Harry’s stomach and chest.

Nick doesn’t so much collapse on top of him as slowly crumble, and Harry gathers him up greedily, pressing his mouth wherever he can reach. Collarbone, shoulder, neck — Harry kisses all over his sweaty skin, loud, biting kisses, along his jaw and cheek until he finds Nick’s mouth again and coaxes him open. He can hardly breathe but it doesn’t matter, he pushes and pulls for as long as he can, fingers digging into Nick’s back until the last second when they absolutely need to break and breathe.

Then Nick kisses him one more time, and rolls. The open air hits his skin like a cold breeze and Harry shivers out, chest shuddering. He feels raw, bruised, and wipes a trembling hand over his swollen mouth. 

He should say something, but Harry has never wanted to say anything any less. He never imagined sex with Nick would be so quiet, desperate, all the things that it was tonight; he’d thought it would be fumbling and laughter and relief. Maybe he’d thought about it too much.

Nick gets out of bed and stumbles a little on his way into the en suite. Harry wonders at how he can even walk at all — his legs feel boneless and almost nonexistent. The only thing telling Harry that they’re still attached being the twinge in his foot and the ache in his thighs. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s shut his eyes until they pop open and he has to adjust again to the glow from the lamp. There’s a flannel on his chest, which is attached to a hand attached to an arm attached to a Nick, and Harry tries to help but is completely ineffective, his arm flopping impotently when he tries to reach for Nick. It’s over quick, almost perfunctory, and Nick doesn’t so much climb back into bed as fall face first against the pillow.

Mirroring him, Harry rolls onto his front, because maybe that’s what you’re supposed to do after you shag one of your best mates in the middle of the night and neither of you are speaking. Keep your distance, keep from staring.

After a moment, he feels Nick move, feels his hand on the back of his head. Nick kisses his shoulder, his neck, the shell of his ear, and Harry smiles against the pillow as a breath catches in his throat. 

In the end, it’s Harry who breaks the silence.

“How was the show tonight?” he asks. It was Nick’s first time doing the live X Factor show, which Harry had recorded back at the hotel, but he wasn’t sure he’d get a chance to watch it now. 

Nick laughs, abrupt and surprised against Harry’s temple. He pets at his hair, down the back of his neck and squeezes his shoulder. “I should be asking you that, I think.” 

Harry turns, smiling so Nick could see it, pleased that he was able to make Nick sound happy and light. It doesn’t feel like they’re suspended in midair anymore, but like his feet are safely, tentatively, on the ground. 

“It was good,” says Harry. He leans in, cradles Nick’s waist in his arms. They tangle together quite nicely, a snug fit, arms and legs and chest to chest. 

“Mmm?”

“Emotional,” says Harry.

“I bet.” Nick shuffles closer, like the impossible is just something he’s able to do now, and Harry watches as his eyes slip shut. His eyelashes fan out against his cheeks and Harry wants to count them, starts to, before Nick breaks out into a grin.

“I’m not staring at you.”

“Sure you aren’t,” Nick says, still grinning, still with his eyes shut. He yawns, turning to bury it in the pillow. 

Harry squeezes his arms tighter, locks them behind Nick’s back. He doesn’t know what time it is, but he knows his flight has to be soon, and all he wants to do is sleep and wake up and have Nick present for both of those things. Right here, in this bed, with his feet planted firmly on the ground.

 

 

**earlier**

 

There’s an after party, of course there is. More than one, fitting in with the disjointed way they all work with each other. Eventually they would all combine and everybody would be a little drunk in the morning still for wherever they were going. 

It’s LA for Harry. He’s got a flight in the morning, and the way he sees it he has two choices: head to the hotel and sleep, give in to the bone-deep exhaustion he started to feel the moment he walked off stage. Wake up in time for take off, be in Los Angeles by the afternoon, and then… Go from there.

Or he could follow Lou’s advice and give the after party his all one more time, have a proper send off for the last five years of his life, and go straight from the party to the airport to make his flight, hangover be damned. She makes a good case for it, even promises not to snapchat for the rest of the night. All the boys are going, band and crew, and Harry doesn’t necessarily want to be an outlier this last time. 

Neither feel right. Something has shaken loose, and he feels on edge. He knows this isn’t the end, has hope that it really is an intermission and not a goodbye, but it feels expansive, bigger than they’ve made it out to be to themselves.

He feels like there’s somewhere else he has to be. His world is open. There’s room for something.

“You’re coming.” Lou looks right at him, posing it at a statement but Harry can hear the question. He should. She checks her phone and Harry fidgets with his. There’s a picture on it from a Halloween party that he didn’t make it to, and he can’t get the image out of his head. 

There is so much open space in front of him. He’s had that feeling since they all agreed to take a break from all this, but he hasn’t been sure what exactly it was supposed to mean. That he’d have time for other things, he supposed. 

“You are,” she says again. “Everyone’s going.”

“Is there a car here?” 

She looks surprised. “Yeah, for us.”

He shouldn’t be an outlier, but this isn’t the end. He doesn’t want to treat it like a goodbye. And he can’t stop fussing with his mobile, wrist jiggling, hands shaking like he’s got to get the energy out somehow.

“Do you mind if I take it? Back to London?”

“London?” She laughs, surprise transitioning into the puzzled fondness she reserves for those special moments where he knows she’s thinking he’s being a complete weirdo. “Why London tonight?”

There’s somewhere else he wants to be. He shrugs, shaking out his restless hands and steeling himself. “Because there’s time.” 

It might have sounded quite meaningful if it wasn’t for Lou looking at him like he’s stepped right out of Harry-weird and directly into weird-weird, like she’s not altogether sure whether it’s something she should condone or step in to nip in the bud. There’s something she wants to ask, Harry can see it, but he knows which side she’ll come out on before she even starts speaking.

“I’ve got the number, I’ll ring him,” she says, already pulling up the contact. “Tell him to meet you round back? Are you- _hey!_ ”

Harry stops. He was already headed towards the door. “Yeah?”

“At least give me a bloody hug goodbye.” He jogs back to her and scoops her right into his arms, squeezing her tight and planting a wet kiss on her cheek. She pushes his face away and laughs, wiping off her face. “Get away from me, thanks. Bye!”

When he gets outside, the car is waiting for him. He wants to go back and kiss Lou one more time just because he’s so grateful, but he opens the door and climbs inside instead before he loses his nerve. His hands won’t stop shaking.

 

 

**this morning**

 

There’s a cold, wet nose of a dog snuffling and snorting at Harry’s face when his alarm goes off. When he opens his eyes it startles both of them, Harry because he’s reminded all at once that he’s supposed to be on a flight soon, that he ditched the after party with the band to jump into bed with Nick, and that he didn’t tell anybody where he was going to be. 

It startles Pig because Nick’s bed guests usually don’t have trouble remembering where they are when they wake up, or if they do they’re much more relaxed about it due to practice, and so are typically more receptive to her advances. 

She hops off the bed and pads, snorting in disappointment, out of the room and down the hall. Harry reaches blindly over towards the sound of what can best be described as a horrific airstrike to grab his phone and drag it, muscles aching, as close to his face as possible. The alarm stops the moment he unlocks his phone, and he glances over to the lumpy form of Nick under the covers, still as ever, before he checks his missed texts.

There’s quite a few from the crew and some family who were at the show, and Lou and Glenne, asking where he’s gone, and possibly others that he doesn’t want to bother with just yet. But he doesn’t want anybody to worry any more than he wants to get out of Nick’s bed and go to the airport, so he opens up a mass text to let them know he’s fine and will work out a later flight, probably. Maybe. A lot of things are up in the air right now. Except, well, Harry. 

Before he’s settled on just the right wording, his secondary alarm sounds. Nick stirs from beneath the covers. They flip down and his head peeks out, one eye open to peer at Harry. “Do you have to get going?”

Harry shakes his head. “No,” he thumbs the alarm off, finishes off the text and sets his phone on the bedside table, then leans over and drops a soft kiss on the curve of Nick’s shoulder.

One eyebrow quirks up, but Nick doesn’t say anything. He just hums, low and pleased, when Harry slides a hand down his chest, past his warm belly, and down between his legs. “We’ve got time,” says Harry, disappearing beneath the covers as Nick buries his fingers in his hair.

 

 

**later**

 

It’s the laziest Sunday Harry can remember having in the recent past, the best kind, helped along by the fact that Nick is hungover and Harry doesn’t want to talk about it.

Nick heats up leftover takeaway while Harry turns on yesterday’s recorded episode of The X Factor. The garden door is flung wide to let in the warm breeze and allow Pig easy access for a wee or two, because neither of them want to put on trousers and take her for a proper walk. Harry fast forwards through the fluff bits and unpauses just every now and then, looking up when Nick comes back to the sitting room with their food.

“Oh, no,” he moans when he catches a glimpse of the telly.

Harry grin. “Why have you recorded yourself?” 

“Market research.” He hands one takeaway box to Harry and plops down right next to him, close enough that their thighs press and their knees knock together. “Ugh, please put summat else on. I’ve got to be back there tonight and I’m nervous enough already.”

Harry doesn’t, but then Nick doesn’t mention it again, so he knows he secretly likes the attention. Not so secretly, possibly, as when he points out his flaws as a judge and Harry rebuffs him all he does is stretch comfortably and drop his head onto Harry’s shoulder, satisfied with the response. Nick is good as a judge, great, but Harry knew he would be. He cares and it’s obvious by the way he is on the show and how he peppers in anecdotes while they watch it together, little bits of behind the scenes and things that his group have gone through and how they are as people. He doesn’t say anything about them as performers. 

In the middle of a story about a prank with Mark Ronson at judge’s houses Harry turns and presses his lips to the top of Nick’s head. He stays there, breathing in the smell of Nick’s shampoo, and doesn’t notice when Nick trails off until he lifts his head. They kiss, lazy and warm and comfortable. Like Sunday.

They don’t talk about it until Nick’s taken Pig for her walk and Harry gets out of the shower, like it was planned that way all along. He has to put on Nick’s clothes when he gets out because he left all his things at the hotel in Sheffield, and he’s going to have to go back and get them soon. Check out was supposed to be that morning but he was able to call and extend it, but only until tomorrow. He hasn’t booked another flight yet.

There’s a cup of coffee set out for when Nick gets back. Harry’s at the table with his own, and he sees Nick see it then look him up and down, register his clothes, and sees the smile quirk at the corner of his mouth, too.

“If you try and steal my Yeezus shirt I will find you,” he warns.

Harry smoothes a hand down the front of the shirt. “I think it likes me.”

“Shut up,” says Nick, rolling his eyes. He takes a sniff at the coffee Harry’s made, looking dubious because he hates how weak Harry always makes it. He takes a sip and looks at Harry with narrowed eyes, like he’s impressed but suspicious about it.

“When are you leaving?” Nick asks, diving right in, probably because he can’t complain about the coffee. No matter how much Harry was prepared for the question it still stings a bit. The worst part is not knowing.

“I’ve got to go back up to Sheffield today and grab my things,” he says. “I didn’t plan very well.”

Nick takes a seat next to Harry at the table and Harry thinks, okay, this is where we talk. He takes a breath.

“I was thinking I’d come back here for a while, though.” He leans his elbows on the table and looks over at Nick, pushing some of the drying hair out of his face. “If that was alright.”

Nick looks amused. “Lost me job as the gatekeeper of London, actually, so that’s really up to you.”

Harry drops his head into his arms and laughs, shoulders shaking. He looks up when Nick kicks him under the table, sitting his cheek in the palm of his hand and smiling across the space between them.

“I mean, like, here. With you.”

“As pals, or…?”

For the first time since Harry showed up, Nick actually looks nervous. Harry feels it, but he’s been told he keeps a very good poker face, so he knocks his ankle against Nick’s to let him know he’s not the only one.

He drums his fingers on the table. “Or.”

He sees Nick take a breath and nod, for his own benefit, it seems. Like he may have expected this, or considered it at the very least. Even his response comes out like it’s been practiced, and it makes Harry’s chest ache with something like embarrassment.

“I haven’t been waiting for you, you know,” is what he says. He’s not trying to be unkind, Harry can tell. It’s more like a for-the-record. It’s fair.

It’s Harry’s turn to nod, because he did expect that, on some level. The spikiness. He says, “I have, I think. Been waiting for me,” then bursts out laughing at the look of incredulousness on Nick’s face, like it was the most absurd thing he’s ever heard come out of Harry’s mouth.

“Stop,” warns Harry between laughter.

“I can’t believe you just said that. _That_. Oh my God,” he shakes his head, getting up from the table and walking away. “I’ve changed my mind. We are absolutely not going to work out after that.”

Harry follows, catching him by the elbow and sliding his arms around his waist, grinning. “Changed your mind?”

“It’s just such a hassle,” Nick rolls his eyes, looking entirely put-upon. “I’ve got to ring all my boyfriends, cancel so many plans, come to terms with having heard what you just said.”

There’s a moment where Harry thinks that if he got to listen to Nick taking the piss out of every ridiculous and corny thing he says every day for the rest of his life, it wouldn’t be long enough. There’s more they should talk about, probably, but Harry’s not the talking sort and Nick seems fine without it, going by the way he cups Harry’s face and the way Harry can feel him smile. Harry takes a breath, curls his arms around Nick’s back, but it doesn’t feel like leaping. Feels more like walking in the front door, and finding yourself at home.

**Author's Note:**

> my [tumblr](http://crucio.tumblr.com)


End file.
